The Castle of Otranto
“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “but while I have
life to ask it—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will you comfort her,
my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I am
faint! bear me to the castle. Can I live to have her close my eyes?”
Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be
borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried
to the castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as
she requested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging
over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her
with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with
discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed
with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality.
Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in
despair.
Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful
catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the
afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her
senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and
Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow.
Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was
lost in tenderness for her mother.
Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself,
she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda,
seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then
clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of
pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he
was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were
more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be
borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the
nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was
regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care
would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s
wound, she cried,
“Remove me! never, never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her.”
Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again
without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand
soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons
into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with
a transport equal to frenzy.
“Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in
death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the
Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons.
“What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is this an hour for
marriage?”
“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is no other!”
“Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic. “Dost thou think we
are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? What
pretensions hast thou to the Princess?”
“Those of a Prince,” said Theodore; “of the sovereign of Otranto. This
reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”
“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of Otranto but
myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all
pretensions.”
“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells you true.
It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon, but
fate presses onward to its work. What his hot-headed passion has
revealed, my tongue confirms. Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail
for the Holy Land—”
“Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and
unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine! In every other thing I will
dutifully obey you. My life! my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore,
rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? Will you not
bless your—”
Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was
near her end.
“What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”
The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up
her eyes, she looked round for her mother.
“Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit
thee!”
“Oh! you are too good,” said Matilda. “But weep not for me, my mother!
I am going where sorrow never dwells—Isabella, thou hast loved me;
wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I
am faint!”
“Oh! my child! my child!” said Hippolita in a flood of tears, “can I not
withhold thee a moment?”
“It will not be,” said Matilda; “commend me to heaven—Where is my father?
forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him my death; it was an error. Oh!
I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore
more—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity—but it was not
intentional—can you pardon me?”
“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst
offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”
“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot
be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake—Oh!—” she expired.
Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore
threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He
printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every
expression that despairing love could dictate.
Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to
her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred,
who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold
his daughter, was advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon
was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy
company the event he dreaded.
“What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at
that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and
the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and
Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore
along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared,
the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty
force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared
in the centre of the ruins.
“Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And
having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it
ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the
form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were
soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.
The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine
will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.
“My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of
human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we
view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know
not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but
dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the
further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon
holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”
“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied
Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh!
could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on
myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left
to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:
Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a
murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and
may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”
“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me; ye
would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why else this
bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my
grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s
crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will
declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad,
no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook
him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and
two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted:
the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s
posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be
grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from
Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor
female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done—the
woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be
Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these
dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question
not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space,
until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”
“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso set
sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily.
The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must
have heard, was separated from him.”
“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give me is more than
an outcast can claim—well! be it so—proceed.”
Jerome blushed, and continued. “For three months Lord Alfonso was
wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named
Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They
were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of
arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until
his return from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her
for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was
delivered of a daughter. But scarce had she felt a mother’s pangs ere
she heard the fatal rumour of her Lord’s death, and the succession of
Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? Would her
testimony avail?—yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing—”
“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, the vision we
have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand
parchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion—”
“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to
recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded.
“I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria
was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria
died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative
has told the rest.”
The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part
of the castle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the
principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them
the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his
daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella
concurred to promote. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the
thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent discourses
with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no
happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge
the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.